


Whatever Remains, However Improbable

by yonwords



Category: Dollhouse
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-20
Updated: 2011-03-20
Packaged: 2017-10-17 03:20:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,779
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/172369
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yonwords/pseuds/yonwords
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Victor and Sierra are imprinted as Holmes and Watson, but the engagement does not go as planned.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Whatever Remains, However Improbable

I consider that a man's brain originally is like a little empty attic,  
and you have to stock it with such furniture as you choose.  
— _A Study in Scarlet_ , Sir Arthur Conan Doyle

 

“Right,” Victor said as he came out of the chair. “I need my service revolver and my medical bag.”

Ivy stepped back as he straightened into military posture, managing to look as crisp in his Dollhouse sportswear as his London accent sounded.

As though reading her mind, Victor looked down at himself and made a face. “And my clothes, please.”

“Of course, Dr. Watson.” Ivy tried to keep her face and voice neutral. This was just so _weird_ , and Topher’s giddy little hopping dance in her peripheral vision wasn’t helping. She ignored the flutters of excitement in her stomach. “If you’ll just go with Ms. Ramirez, she’ll see that you get everything you need.”

“And Holmes?” Victor demanded without moving.

“We expect her to arrive in just a few minutes.” Ivy gestured toward Ramirez. “We’ll send her down after you as soon as she does.”

Victor gave the room a slow, appraising look and then nodded and followed Ramirez out of the room.

Ivy turned back to her computer screen, flexing her fingers to stop the shaking.

“This is so cool!” Topher said somewhere behind her. She heard a hacky-sack smack from one of his palms to the other. Did anyone even have hacky-sacks anymore? “I mean, I’ve made detectives,” Topher continued, “but never _the_ detectives. Why hasn’t anyone ever asked for this before? I’ve been _dying_ to try my hand at classical fictional characters. Hamlet! Don Juan! Spock!”

“Hamlet?” Ivy brought up the Holmes imprint. Topher hadn’t let her touch it, of course, despite the fact that she’d read her complete Sherlock Holmes collection seven times as a child. She’d even brought her battered paperback of Holmes stories to work for the last week. She hadn’t dared take it out of her bag in Topher’s presence, but at least she’d managed to read “A Scandal in Bohemia” over her pitifully short lunch breaks. “Why would anyone want Hamlet?”

Topher crossed his arms. “But you get my point. There are tons of fictional people out there we could do.”

“Like Darcy.”

Topher’s arms escaped from their crossed position and flung themselves above his head. “Yes! Exactly! Why aren’t we flooded with Darcy requests?”

Ivy stopped typing and actually thought about it. He had a good point. “I don’t know. Maybe they’re afraid we couldn’t pull it off.”

Topher looked so mortified and offended that Ivy had to turn back to her computer so he couldn’t see her smirk.

“I can pull it off, okay?” he said. “Look at that imprint in front of you. Sherlock Holmes! To a T! And not just Sherlock Holmes—female, _contemporary_ Sherlock Holmes. A Holmes who will feel just as at home in L.A. as her predecessor did in Victorian England.”

Ivy couldn’t stop her frown. “A female Holmes.” Odd, but potentially awesome. She’d wait and see how Topher’s imprint worked out.

Topher giggled. “Why not? Client wants his Holmes obsession to be hetero-friendly, so we give him Sierr-lock Holmes.” Ivy heard him sigh and knew he was beaming idiotically at something, probably the chair. She hadn’t quite worked out Topher’s relationship with the chair. “Damn, I’m good.”

He was saved from Ivy’s retort by Sierra, who strolled into the room, smiling beatifically. Her handler, Spencer, followed. “I enjoy my treatments,” she announced.

Topher shuffled her over to the chair, cooing about how she was in for a special treatment today. Ivy rolled her eyes and uploaded the imprint to the chair. As Sierra sank back into the glow, Ivy turned to Topher.

“I still think you should have let me help build the imprint.”

“Relax, Ives.” Topher grinned, and Ivy braced herself for a mixed pop culture metaphor. “It’s elementary, my young Padawan.” He held a finger to his lips to stop her from explaining that Holmes never actually said that in the books, not exactly, and pointed at Sierra. The glow shut off and the chair began to rise. “Now,” he whispered, “watch.”

Sherlock Holmes opened her eyes.

* * *

Watson tugged at the cuffs of his favorite tweed suit and nodded at his reflection. Ms. Ramirez stood nearby, watching him with an odd mixture of amusement and awe. She handed him his revolver and valise. “Your things, Doctor.”

“Thank you.”

He turned toward the door just as Holmes strode through it. He smiled in greeting, but couldn’t seem to find his voice. The sight of her made his tongue stick to the roof of his mouth.

He’d shared a flat with Holmes for years—thrown together by happenstance and their shared country of origin. He’d seen her in innumerable disguises, lost in the haze of marijuana and boredom, and sprinting through the streets of L.A. in pursuit of a suspect. But for some reason, seeing her now, with her hair down around shoulders left nearly bare by a pale, snug top, he felt a jolt in his abdomen he’d never felt before where Holmes was concerned.

“Watson.” She stopped in front of him. “I see you’re ready. Good. I’m sorry I’m late—it seems my reputation preceded me. The young man upstairs was reluctant to let me go.”

Watson frowned. “I don’t recall him saying anything when I arrived.”

“I wish I’d had your experience,” Holmes said. “I couldn’t get him to stop talking until I asked if he spent the majority of his free time playing video games because he was, in fact, impotent due to early onset diabetes caused by his diet of mostly processed sugars and carbohydrates.”

Fighting a laugh, Watson closed his eyes and envisioned the young man in question. “Mismatched clothing, bad posture, hyperactive body language…” He opened his eyes and met Holmes’ expectant gaze. “Soda can and empty snack cake package on the desk behind him.”

Holmes nodded, allowing a small smile. “Well done, Watson. He also had soft hands, except for the pads of his thumbs. He denied the possibility entirely, of course, but I still feel it was a valid question and suggested he set an appointment with a doctor to be sure. And now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll get dressed so we can be on our way.”

“I’m sorry I missed that,” Ms. Ramirez said as soon as Holmes was out of earshot. “I’d have paid to see the look on Topher’s face.”

“She was merely playing with him.” Watson slid his revolver into the inner pocket of his jacket. “It’s been a while since we’ve had a case. It always puts her on edge, makes her more likely to abuse her gifts.”

“This is going to be one of the more interesting days I’ve had since taking this job, I can already tell.” Ms. Ramirez seemed to address this statement to no one in particular, but Watson figured he might as well use these few moments to start gathering information about the case.

“You work for our client, correct?” he asked. “Mr. Anderson?”

Ms. Ramirez shook her head. “Mr. Anderson will tell you everything you need to know once we arrive. My job is simply to escort you to his home.”

Watson considered pressing the point, but Holmes came around the corner looking as she usually did—crisply tailored slacks, white button-down shirt with a Mandarin collar, pinstripe waistcoat. Her hair had been twisted back into its customary bun, not a stray strand in sight. She breezed past him, Anderson’s other escort trotting behind her, and called, “Watson! The case awaits!”

Ms. Ramirez and her colleague, Mr. Spencer, led them to an underground garage, ushered them into the backseat of a black sedan, and drove them smoothly and quietly through Los Angeles. Holmes didn’t speak. She lounged against the seat, her eyes half-closed, but Watson knew she marked every turn the car made, and he focused on doing the same so he wouldn’t spend the entire drive simply staring at her. It was odd, this sudden attraction. He knew Holmes well—knew her moods, her many faults, her great genius. Somehow, despite what should have been great obstacles, he had managed to live with her, day in and day out, and become her friend. But today, he felt as though his body and soul had just discovered a key fact about Sherlock Holmes that his mind had known since the instant they met: she was a woman, and a beautiful one, at that.

Watson noted a passing street sign and studiously did not turn his head to see if Holmes had moved.

They arrived at the client’s home after twenty-three minutes. The car pulled through a large iron gate, which slowly swung open when Spencer punched in a code, and followed the wide, curving drive to the house’s double wooden doors. Smooth, white pillars held up a balcony that stretched the considerable length of the house. Watson’s eyes swept the front of the mansion as he climbed out of the car, and he tried not to feel too impressed at its size. Their client would certainly have no trouble affording Holmes’ fee.

“We’ll take you back to your rooms as soon as you’ve solved Mr. Anderson’s problem,” Ms. Ramirez said.

Holmes turned to her. “He expects us to have it solved today?”

Ms. Ramirez looked momentarily flustered. “Well, you are Sherlock Holmes. Whatever he needs, it can’t be that difficult for you.”

“Hmm.” Holmes turned toward the house and strode up the wide, stone steps to the door. Watson quickly thanked Ms. Ramirez and followed.

Holmes knocked sharply on the door, ignoring the doorbell, and Watson watched her eyes flick over their surroundings.

A middle-aged man in a polo shirt, black trousers, and expensive shoes opened the door, smiling. “Ms. Holmes, Dr. Watson. Thank you so much for coming. Please, come in.” He stepped back, his enthusiasm palpable, and Watson followed Holmes inside.

“I’m Ira Anderson.” He led them into a lavishly furnished sitting room. “I can’t tell you how much it means to me that you took my case.”

Watson chose the least overstuffed chair he could find and took in the room. A set of French doors flanked by large, floor-to-ceiling windows looked out over the pristine slope of the house’s back lawn. A swimming pool sat off to one side, and at the back, at what appeared to be the terminus of the driveway, sat a building that had once been a stable but now housed automobiles. The room itself was all dark wood trim and earth tones, obviously professionally decorated with a masculine audience in mind. Above the likely never-used fireplace hung a Chagall painting. Watson couldn’t be sure, but he guessed it was an original.

Holmes sat in a leather armchair. “I’m sorry you had to miss your weekly tennis lesson. I hope your lack of staff this afternoon hasn’t inconvenienced you.”

Anderson looked momentarily shocked, but then his smile returned, wider than before. “Yes, I canceled my lesson today and gave my housekeeper the afternoon off. How did you know?” He leaned forward.

“Simple.” Holmes plucked a bit of fuzz from her trouser leg. “The tennis racket in a Hamilton Sports Club cover leaning against the wall in the foyer. A house this size must require domestic help, especially for a single man living alone, so for you to answer the door yourself is unusual. Clearly you’d sent the help home, but didn’t notify her that you would not be attending your customary tennis lesson. On purpose, I’d wager. You didn’t want her to know you were meeting us.”

Anderson’s glee faded. “You’re right. I didn’t want her to know. You see…” He stood and moved to the large, roll-top desk in the corner of the room. After unlocking a drawer with a key from his pocket, he reached deep inside and emerged with a folder.

Watson straightened in his chair. Holmes accepted the folder and opened it. She lifted a piece of paper to her nose, then passed it to Watson. It was small—three inches square—and thick, expensive. In the exact center was a deep purple wax seal depicting an oak tree and its roots, large acorns sprouting from its branches.

“A calling card?” Holmes asked.

Anderson nodded and sank back into his chair. “I’ve received four of them, as you can see by the contents of the folder. Each one I discovered in place of a precious family heirloom that had been stolen.”

“And what were they?” Holmes shuffled the remaining three cards in her hands. Watson handed his back to her.

“My mother’s engagement ring, my grandfather’s Medal of Honor from World War II, a Civil War sword, and the journal of an ancestor who came to America in 1758.”

“And you wish us to recover the items?” Watson asked.

“Yes. Please. The police have discovered nothing. I’ve got three men on my payroll, watching eBay and other auction sites in case one of the less valuable items shows up there. But no one has made any progress at all.” Anderson leaned forward, his elbows on his knees and his hands clasped before him. He looked earnest, but there was something off about his expression. Watson studied him, trying to figure out what it was. There was eagerness, excitement, but he watched Holmes with an avid attention that seemed to involve more than his desire for her help. Watson’s fingers tightened on his knees as a wave of dislike swept through him.

“Something else has been stolen,” Holmes said.

Anderson sagged. “Yes. A small portrait of Mary Stuart that, family legend holds, was given to a distant relative by the Scottish queen herself. In its place last evening I found this.”

He stood again, retrieved a familiar square of wax-sealed paper from the mantelpiece, and handed it to Holmes. Watson saw that, rather than the single, unmarked sheet of paper, this was instead a folded note, the wax sealing it shut.

Holmes broke the seal and opened it. Her eyebrows rose. “’Prove yourself worthy of the crest, and your heirlooms will be returned to you. Stand sure. ’”

Watson rose from his chair and moved behind Holmes so that he could read the note as well. Somewhat incongruously, given the paper stock and the wax seal, the note had been typed.

“It’s a riddle,” Anderson said. When Holmes did nothing other than pick at the seal with her fingernail, he shifted his weight and added, “Would you like to see where the items were kept?”

“All together in one case, but only one was stolen at a time? And your substantial and expensive alarm system never went off? And the police found no fingerprints?” She tossed the note onto the small table next to her chair and stood.

Anderson’s shoulders tightened. “Um, yes, actually. Right on all counts.”

“Of course. One final question.” Holmes looked up at the ceiling, as though it were far more interesting than anything else going on at the moment. “Does your family crest—the Anderson crest—hang above the cabinet in which these items are stored?”

“Y-yes.” Anderson took a step toward her, an odd light in his eyes. “How did you know that?”

“A safe guess.” Holmes turned to look at Watson. “Ah, good. You didn’t remove your jacket.”

“So you’ll take the case?” Anderson pressed, catching hold of Holmes’s wrist with one hand. “You’ll help me recover my stolen items?”

She casually broke his hold with a twist of her arm. “No need. They were never stolen in the first place. You’ve set up this whole mystery yourself. Let’s go, Watson.”

She moved toward the door, and Watson followed close on her heels. He was stopped before exiting the room by Anderson’s grip on his shoulder, spinning him aside. Anderson reached for Holmes, but Watson caught his arm and twisted it behind his back. Anderson came up on his toes.

“Ah! Ah! I wasn’t going to hurt her! I swear!”

Watson relaxed his hold slightly but kept Anderson on his toes. He allowed himself a gloating smile, though only Holmes could see it.

“You _have_ to help me,” Anderson said. “Please. This isn’t how it’s supposed to go.”

Holmes shook her head. “I’m not sure why you called us here today, Mr. Anderson. Perhaps you’re bored, perhaps you desire more attention than your heirlooms can give you, perhaps you’ve heard of my work and wanted an adventure. Whatever your reasons may be, they are a waste of my time and of the good doctor’s. So we are leaving, and you may retrieve your heirlooms from whatever place you have secreted them—something to do with that large oak tree in your back yard, I imagine, though I suppose we weren’t supposed to discover that until the end of a lengthy scavenger hunt through Los Angeles. Perhaps if you hurry, you can still make your tennis lesson.”

She turned and disappeared into the foyer, and Watson released Anderson with a slight push and followed.

“Wait!” Anderson called behind them. Watson heard his footsteps chasing after them. “I _paid_ for—“

Holmes twisted the knob of the front door with energy born from annoyance. “You did _not_ pay, Mr. Anderson. I came for a consultation, and I have chosen not to take your case, as there is no case to take. Good-bye.”

Then they were outside, and Watson took a small, petty pleasure in slamming the door in Mr. Anderson’s face.

“How did you know?” he asked as they walked toward the car that had brought them.

“He knew the contents of the note, but it hadn’t been opened. That was the biggest giveaway, though there were several, smaller ones I can’t be bothered to relate. I don’t know what he thought he was doing, but it certainly wasn’t intelligent.”

Ms. Ramirez climbed out of the car and moved toward them, followed by Mr. Spencer. “That was fast. Done already?” she asked.

“Mr. Anderson did not require our services,” Holmes said, striding past their escorts.

Mr. Spencer frowned. “Are you sure? I figured this would take a few hours, at least.”

Holmes reached the car, but didn’t open the door. She turned back to face their escorts, and Watson slid into place at her side. “He was wasting my time, something I do not make a habit of tolerating.”

Ramirez and Spencer exchanged looks. Spencer looked back toward Anderson’s house. “Should we…?”

Ms. Ramirez shook her head. “No, not our job. Let’s just get them back.” She caught Watson’s eye and smiled. “Would you like a—“

She didn’t get to finish her sentence, because Holmes kicked her in the stomach. Ramirez staggered back and fell onto the grass, and Holmes flung herself after her.

“Hey!” Spencer shouted, moving toward the two struggling women. “Sierra!”

He reached underneath his suit jacket, and Watson tackled him. They hit the ground, and Watson flipped Spencer onto his back, noting the shoulder holster he wore. Spencer managed to block Watson’s first punch, but not the second, third, or fourth. When Spencer stopped moving, Watson looked up to find Holmes standing over an unconscious Ramirez, brushing off her trousers.

“Want to tell me why we just attacked our escorts?” he asked.

“Help me get them into the car, and I’ll explain on the way.”

“The way where?”

“Have you got anything in that bag of yours that will keep them unconscious for a while?”

Watson sighed, stood, and helped her tie up their escorts and stuff them into the back seat of the car. He gave them both a moderate dose of sedative and then went through their pockets, uncovering three guns, a knife, two cell phones, two GPS trackers, two radios, a pack of gum, and a Power Bar. Holmes, having already claimed the front passenger seat, dumped the whole lot into Watson’s medical bag and set it between her feet.

Watson slid behind the steering wheel, but Holmes’s hand on his wrist stopped him in the process of turning the key in the ignition.

“Look.” She tapped the rearview mirror.

A sleek black convertible roared around the house and down the driveway past them, barely slowing enough to allow the iron gate to swing open before turning and disappearing down the road. Watson caught a glimpse of Anderson’s profile as he blew by.

“Let’s follow him,” Holmes said. “I think I know where he’s going, but it will put me in a better mood to be proven right.”

Watson started the car, put it in gear, and followed the convertible out of the estate and toward the highway. Holmes slumped in her seat, one hand tented over her eyes.

“Are you going to explain yourself?” Watson asked. “I’d like to know why I just beat a man unconscious.”

“Not just now, Watson,” she muttered. “Please give me the twenty minutes it will take to reach our destination to think. Right now my thoughts are so fractured and incomplete that I’ve barely enough of a theory _to_ tell you.”

“Fine.” Watson accelerated, pouring his frustration with Holmes into keeping the black convertible in sight. She seemed to take pleasure in keeping him in the dark. He knew he should be used to it by now, but what if he could help her piece the bits of information together? Why did she insist on shutting him out? He thought, after all this time, he’d at least proved himself useful. If she didn’t value him as a partner and friend, it was unlikely she’d ever value him as anything more.

He glared at the back of the convertible and drove. After ten minutes, he’d recognized enough street signs to realize where they must be headed. Holmes hadn’t moved except to ask him one question.

“Spencer shouted something before you tackled him. What was it?”

“‘Sierra,’” Watson replied immediately. “I assumed it was Ms. Ramirez’s given name, though his inflection was wrong, if so. It’s also Spanish for a mountain range, I think.”

She didn’t respond, and Watson focused on finding somewhere unobtrusive to park the car. Anderson had pulled up in front of a skyscraper and hurled his keys at the valet attendant. As he stormed inside, Watson looked around and recognized the surrounding buildings. They’d exited from an underground garage, but it was definitely the same building at which he and Holmes had arrived barely two hours ago.

When the car stopped, Holmes finally looked up. “Ah. Right again. Did he go inside?”

“Yes.”

“Front door?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Let’s go.” She kicked open her door and started down the sidewalk. Watson followed her into an alley, where she took up pacing. He recognized the energy coursing through her and felt it infect him as well, negating any attempts to hold onto his anger toward her.

God, she was beautiful when she was like this. She was always beautiful, but today, now—on the scent, her thin silhouette cutting through the alley shadows, strands of her hair hanging down around her face—she was all he could see.

When she didn’t speak, he started for her. “A fabricated case intended to draw us out. Escorts who are clearly some sort of security detail and may or may not work for the client.” He looked out of the alley at the building across the street. “And the people responsible for it likely in this building. Someone from a past case out for revenge, maybe?”

“It’s bigger than that, Watson, and far more personal,” she said with a darkness he had not often seen. She spun and paced back across the width of the alley.

“More personal than revenge? What do you mean?”

“I mean this.” And she grabbed him by the lapels and kissed him.

Despite the many dangers and surprises Watson had been through with Holmes, she had never shocked him as thoroughly as she did in that moment.

He recovered enough to kiss her back for a few woefully short seconds before she pushed away. They looked at each other for a breath or two, and the coolly analytical look in her eyes killed Watson’s euphoria.

“I’ve wanted to do that all day,” she said, but it was curiosity that tinged her words, not passion. Watson drooped a little more. “You?”

He swallowed and managed a nod.

“And have you ever wanted to kiss me before, Watson? Before today?”

He opened his mouth to answer, but the word that came out surprised him. “No.” He blinked and searched his memory. All the years, all their cases, but his affection—his love, even—for Holmes had never been anything other than…fraternal. He frowned. “No,” he said again. “Never.”

“Me neither.” She resumed pacing, four quick steps and then a turn. “Never have I seen you as anything beyond a brother and a dear friend, until today, when it has required every ounce of self-control I possess not to touch you at every opportunity.”

Even delivered in her analytical way, the words pulled him forward, toward her. Her next turn set her momentum his direction, and neither of them stopped. The kiss lasted much longer this time, involving hands and tongues and the nearest wall.

When they broke for breath, Holmes spoke without missing a beat. “Something in us has changed. _Been_ changed, by someone else. There are other things wrong. What do you remember about your arrival this afternoon?”

Watson tightened his arms around her. “Nothing. There’s nothing _to_ remember. Let’s worry about it tomorrow.” He lowered his head, but she made a soft humming sound of pleasure he’d never heard before and slipped away.

“Exactly,” she said once she’d reached what Watson assumed she considered a safe distance. “There’s nothing to remember. Except there _is_. And something is keeping us from remembering it.” She closed her eyes. “There was the gamer and his assistant, computers, the faint smell of Doritos. I needed to change my clothes, and Mr. Spencer escorted me.” She frowned. “And a chair. There was a chair.” She opened her eyes and looked at Watson. “But what came before that, how I got there, and the details and meaning of what I observed after my arrival—they’re vague and indistinct. My memories are never vague or indistinct.”

Watson shrugged. “It’s odd, to be sure, but I see nothing sinister in it.”

“Were you wearing pajamas?” she asked, stopping his forward motion.

He tried to remember. “I…perhaps. Yes, I think I might have been. Ms. Ramirez took me down to get dressed.” There was something about that fact that troubled him, but he couldn’t catch hold of it.

“As was I.” Holmes resumed her pacing. “Why would we arrive for a case in our pajamas? And separately? Why, when I think back on our adventures, is every moment crystal clear, but everything in between or before seems hazy distance?”

Watson felt his alarm grow as he tested his own memory. He could have easily told someone his life story, but when it came to singling out a specific event or moment in time, the memory slipped from his grasp. It was there, he could locate it, label it, but could not access it. He turned and looked at the building across the street. “Did they…?”

Holmes stepped to his side. “Somehow, Watson, our minds have been tampered with.”

“What? Are you saying we’ve been _brainwashed_?” He turned to her and took a step back. “That’s absurd, Holmes. Impossible.”

She gave him a look. “I know I don’t need to quote one of the staples of analytical reasoning to you, Watson. Yes, if you want to use the most ridiculous word for it—brainwashed. By a drug, perhaps, or some new technology we have no knowledge of. It’s the only explanation.” Watson felt the anger grow in her, crackling in the air next to him. “And yes, the people responsible are inside that building.”

“So we watch and learn?”

“Precisely.”

They settled in to wait.

* * *

Ivy and Topher walked into a bar, pausing just inside the door to let their eyes adjust to the dim interior. Ivy headed toward the last empty booth and tossed her purse onto one of the seats. Topher followed her, muttering, as he’d done the entire four-block walk from the Dollhouse. Ivy gave him a shove toward the other seat and went to get drinks.

When she returned with two beers, Topher had buried his fingers in his already disheveled hair. As Ivy sat across from him, sticking slightly to the vinyl seat, he made a long, dramatic, frustrated noise.

“This is not my fault,” he said for the sixth time. “I fulfilled the client’s parameters _perfectly_.”

“I know,” Ivy said. “Drink your beer.”

Topher gave his glass a vague look of surprise, then raised his face to hers. His fingers fell out of his hair, leaving it sticking up all over his head. “Was I supposed to make her _stupid_? It’s not my fault he couldn’t put together a scenario that stumped her for more than ten seconds.”

Mr. Anderson, the client who requested the Holmes and Watson imprints, had arrived at the Dollhouse forty-five minutes earlier, and he hadn’t been in a good mood. He’d paid for the chance to solve a crime with Sherlock Holmes, and instead Sierra had barely heard him out before announcing he’d set the whole thing up himself, and then she and Victor had walked out. Just like that. Ivy and Topher had been called up to Dewitt’s office so Anderson could yell at them personally.

As soon as they’d been able to escape, Ivy suggested the bar. She was still trying to forget the way Topher’s expression had shifted from surprise to suspicion to elation before he eagerly agreed. She wondered when he’d last gone out for drinks with a friend, but put a stop to that train of thought by drinking half her beer in one go. She and Topher were not buddies; she just didn’t like being yelled at.

“Whoa,” Topher said, watching her.

She shrugged. “College.”

“Yeah. No, yeah.” He leaned back in his seat and taking a large swig of beer. “Totally. Me too.”

Ivy looked out at the bar so she wouldn’t laugh. She always wanted to laugh when Topher tried to be cool. Most of the bar’s patrons were in various stages of shedding their business suits, having stopped here for happy hour on their way from the office to their homes. Ivy propped her elbow on the table and went to set her chin in her hand, but her eyes shifted to the two people walking toward their booth, and she froze.

“Oh, shit,” she said.

“What?” Topher turned to follow her wide-eyed stare, squeaked, and nearly knocked over his beer.

Sierra and Victor came to a stop next to their table.

“We’d like to speak with you,” Sierra said.

Topher’s mouth hung open, and Ivy was sure hers did the same. “About what?” she managed to ask.

“You are _very_ not supposed to be here,” Topher said, his voice climbing in pitch. “Where are your hand—um, Ms. Ramirez and Mr. Spencer?”

“When we last saw them, they were unconscious in the backseat of their car,” Sierra said.

“They’re perfectly all right,” Victor added. “No lasting damage.”

“H-how did you get here?” Topher asked.

Ivy shrank back in her seat, looking from one active to the other. Sierra looked calm, but it was the same expression Ms. Dewitt wore in her most dangerous moods, and it made Ivy even more nervous than Victor’s clear wavering between uncertainty and disgust.

“We followed Mr. Anderson, of course,” Sierra said. “I could have retraced our journey, but it was much easier to follow our client. Or perhaps it would be more accurate to say _your_ client.”

Topher swallowed, and Ivy heard it from across the table.

“Tell us what you did.” Sierra’s voice took on an edge of steel. “You changed us. Something is wrong with our minds.”

Ivy froze for the second time in a minute, her shock even more powerful this time. They _knew_?

“Your minds are _perfect_ ,” Topher protested, the words bursting from him.

Sierra leaned forward, her hands on the table, and asked, “What does the chair do?”

Topher stared at her, open-mouthed, and then his cell phone buzzed. Ivy jumped as it flashed and vibrated across the table, and Topher snatched it up like it was some sort of life preserver.

“Boyd!” he nearly shouted into the phone. “Hey, I’ve got—what? In a bar. Totally Ivy’s idea.”

Despite the situation, Ivy considered strangling him.

“Uhhhh, that won’t be necessary, big guy,” Topher said, still staring wide-eyed at Sierra. “Because I already know where they are. I’m…kinda looking at them right now. Yep. Uh huh.” He pulled the phone away from his mouth and turned to Ivy. “What’s this place called?”

“Scotty’s,” she said numbly.

“Scotty’s,” he repeated. “It’s…I don’t know, around some corner or other. I’m sure you can find it, security whiz that you are. Right. Okay.” He winced. “Okay.” He hung up the phone and set it back on the table. “Um.”

“Holmes,” Victor said, his voice low. “They’re coming.”

“We have time.” Sierra leaned closer to Topher, who scooted back until he hit the wall. “Did you alter our minds?”

“Yes,” Ivy said.

Sierra turned to her.

“How did you figure it out?” Ivy asked. Sierra’s eyes hardened. “Just answer that one question,” Ivy said in a rush, “and I’ll tell you all about it.”

“Ivy!” Topher squeaked, but she ignored him. So did everyone else.

“Time, Holmes,” Watson said again. “Answer the question, and let’s get the information while we can.”

Sierra straightened, and something in her expression shifted. She took Victor’s hand, intertwining their fingers. Victor looked down at their joined hands and then back up, and the way he looked at Sierra in that moment made Ivy’s throat feel tight.

“Yesterday, Watson was merely my friend,” Sierra said. “When I woke up in your facility today—because that’s what I did, is it not? woke up?—he was suddenly much more. I’ve had little experience or desire for such things in my life, but Watson assures me love does not usually work in this manner. Which can only mean that sometime between yesterday and today, something within us has been changed.”

“Oh,” Ivy said softly. “I see.”

She looked at Topher, whose expression had lost some of its panic. He leaned forward. “Do you know what this means?” he stage-whispered. “The internet is right! About them! Being all…” He made a hand gesture.

Ivy frowned. “Football?”

“No! What? Football?”

“This”—Ivy repeated the hand gesture—“means ‘football’ in American Sign Language.”

He waved her words away with both hands. “Of course not. That doesn’t even make sense. Why do you know sign language? I mean _together_. Them.” He tilted his head toward the actives, as though they weren’t two feet away and perfectly capable of hearing him.

Ivy felt her face warm. “They are not!” she said more loudly than she intended. “That’s ridiculous. Did you ever actually _read_ —“ She shut her mouth with a click.

Topher looked smug. She hated when Topher looked smug, and he looked smug all the time. “I don’t know, Ives. I didn’t put it in the imprint. It’s got to be coming from somewhere.”

“Exactly. They’re—“

“Imprint?” Watson repeated.

“Ah,” Sierra said quietly.

Topher gave Ivy a guilty look.

She shook her head. “It’s all right. I was going to explain anyway, right?” She took a deep breath and met Sierra’s steady, all too perceptive gaze. “You’re not real, not in the strictest sense of the word. Topher created your personalities and then imprinted them upon your minds. Your personalities, memories, instincts, skills—all of it is fabricated, based on two fictional characters from classic literature.” She reached for her bag, pulled out her battered paperback of Sherlock Holmes short stories, and handed it to Sierra. “Look at the copyright date.”

Sierra studied the cover expressionlessly, but Victor sucked in a breath and paled. Sierra opened the book, flipped to the copyright page, and said, “Eighteen ninety-one. Eighteen ninety-two. Nineteen-oh-one.”

“My God,” Victor breathed.

Sierra closed her eyes for several long seconds, and none of them dared to interrupt her. “I believe you. A three-cigarette problem, under normal circumstances, but I gather I don’t have the time.” She opened her eyes.

Ivy shook her head.

Victor still stared at the book cover. “Holmes, you’re…a man.”

Topher made a small, high-pitched noise that might have been a giggle. Movement past his head caught Ivy’s attention, and she saw Boyd Langton standing in the bar’s entryway.

“They’re coming.” She looked quickly back at the actives.

Sierra nodded. “There’s only one piece of the puzzle I cannot find a place for—what’s Sierra?”

Ivy looked down at the table and traced someone’s carved graffiti with her finger. “You are. When you’re not Holmes, you’re Sierra. It’s your name.”

When Ivy gathered the courage to look up, Sierra stared at the wall above their heads. Ivy thought she looked almost sad, and she hadn’t let go of Victor’s hand. Victor looked lost. He kept looking from the book cover to Sierra’s face, then casting helpless glances at Ivy.

“Holmes,” he said, seeming to choke on the word, and as Sierra turned to him, he caught her face in his hands and kissed her desperately. Ivy gasped, and her eyes started to burn. Boyd and three of the security team moved through the bar toward them.

“My dear Watson,” Sierra said quietly when he released her.

His hands still held her face. “I—“

“That’s real,” Ivy blurted. The actives looked at her. She forced back tears and made herself continue. “What you feel for each other—it’s real. It wasn’t in the imprint. That’s _you_. Both of you.”

Ivy’s eyes caught on Victor’s. “Thank you,” he said.

And then Boyd was there. “Ms. Holmes, Dr. Watson. Would you like your treatments now?”

All the tension went out of Victor’s body. “God, yes. It’s been a beast of a day.”

Sierra seemed annoyed. “If we must, but only if you agree not to speak to me for an hour afterward. I need to sort out all the implications of this situation.”

“Of course,” Boyd agreed easily. He gave Topher and Ivy a look that made them both shrink down in their seats, and then he led the actives toward the door, the rest of the security team following. Neither Sierra nor Victor looked back.

Ivy picked up her beer and drained the rest of it. When she set her glass down, Topher was watching her.

“I guess we should go back,” he said. “Wipe them.”

“Yeah.” She fidgeted with the book Sierra had left on the table. The cover’s edges had all worn white, and the corners were bent and soft. She slid the paperback into her bag and stood. “Actually, if it’s okay, I’d rather not.”

Topher seemed to try to shake his head and nod at the same time. “No, yeah, totally cool. I can handle it. You go home.”

She started for the bar’s door, and he slid out of the booth and caught her arm.

“You were right,” he said. “About them. It wasn’t Holmes and Watson with the kissing. It was Sierra and Victor.”

Ivy pushed a strand of hair out of her face. “It’s overriding their imprints.”

“Yeah.”

“That’s not good.”

“No.”

They stood for a second, and then Topher rubbed his hands back and forth over his head. Ivy watched him, tense.

He exhaled loudly and then looked up at her. “I don’t know how to fix it.” He sounded much younger than she knew he was. He took another breath and straightened. With a small jolt of surprise, Ivy recognized resolve. “We don’t tell Dewitt,” he said. “Not yet. Let’s just try to keep them from going on any engagements together in the future. Victor’s contract is up soon, and then the problem is gone, and no one has to go to the Attic or get transferred.” He searched her face. “Okay?”

Ivy smiled at him. “Okay.”

They exited the bar, and Ivy lifted her face to the sun, remembering the way Victor looked at Sierra and allowing herself to mourn for them, just for that moment.

“Uh, Ivy?”

She opened her eyes and turned her head.

Topher shuffled his feet. “How do I get back to the Dollhouse from here?”

Ivy sighed.

 

END

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Rodlox in the Dollficathon. Requests were "imprinted to be Holmes and Watson," "Sierra watches Ivy and Topher walk into a bar," and "languages." Also known as the Greatest Prompt of All Time.


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